


what we lack in words

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication is a tricky concept even for ageless beings, Confessions, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstanding, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Pining, mutual dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, reaching over to take his hands. “We have saved the world together. We have been godparents, companions through the ages, and no one knows us more than we do each other. What other word is there but husband?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 253





	what we lack in words

**Author's Note:**

> When trying to figure out if this was fluffy angst or angsty fluff my proofreader told me "It’s basically a good ol roller coaster that jumps from angst to fluff. Ultimately it’s like 90% fluff 10% angst and it will make you squeal" so I hope that is illuminating. 
> 
> My first time posting since my exams! I survived!! For Lover's Lament folks: I'm on it :D Hopefully the last chapter will come this Sunday, and otherwise somewhere next week. And for Good Omens people, the 30th I will start posting my Mini-bang fic, but in the meantime check out the fics that have already posted at do-it-with-style-events on tumblr! 
> 
> Hope you like this lil thing and please let me know <3 Last couple of months have been rough for all of us and I'd love to hear how you are!

Crowley sways his way to the front door, the ringing of the bell piercing through his head like a particularly persistent woodpecker. 

The delivery should have been here an hour ago, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent the time drinking perhaps more than was prudent, if one wished to interact with the outside world in a fashionable manner. 

Aziraphale’s pouting while complaining of hunger had been the match to a rumbling fire of frustration, so by the time the delivery girl says, “It was with rice, right?”, there is no stopping the flames of hell. 

“Give it,” Crowley hisses, eyes flashing. “If you are too stupid to do this simple task, I do not trust you to be able to throw it away either! I shall do the honours.”

She makes no move to hand it over, which only reveals more foolishness. Who dares to stand in the way of Crowley, demon of the underworld, giver of choice and creator of sin? 

Crowley is about to set the record straight with some well placed infernal curses, when the kid goes from a defensive stance to a huff of relief. 

Aziraphale pipes up behind him, “What is going on? Why are we taking so long, I’m quite hungry— oh there we are. Thank you, dear, it's quite the weather isn’t it?” 

The teen mutters a very audible ‘Thank God’, under her breath, before saying, “I am sorry, sir, for the delay. There was a traffic jam because of the rain.” Her gaze flickers between them before clearing her throat. “I think we might have gotten the order wrong too and your husband here is not taking it too kindly.” 

Crowley, in a mist of offence, opens his mouth to snap something— anything to put the fear of all that is unholy into this mortal child— how dare she point to him as the villain in this situation when _she_ forgot the egg noodles. It’s Aziraphale’s favorite. It shan’t be forgiven. 

But just before he can speak, he trips over one peculiar word she said and all thought is scattered in the following proverbial fall.

Husband. 

Aziraphale smiles, the kind of smile that soothes even the most prickly of people, and says, “My apologies for my husband’s behavior. He gets fussy when hungry, you know how it is.” 

_My husband?_

“I— we—” Crowley splutters, as Aziraphale steals the wallet right out of his hands and pays the abomination of food-delivery dressed in human clothing. “She forgot your egg noodles!”

Aziraphale pats his arm reassuringly. “I’ll just liberate some of your ramen, dear. You never finish the whole thing anyway.” 

At that, the girl sees her chance to flee and slips away in what should be considered a jog, but might look like a walk to the untrained eye. 

Aziraphale closes the door, seemingly completely unperturbed by the situation. He has no trouble guiding Crowley back to the living room, as he has reverted to a static state of complete confoundment. This is because the tiny metaphorical devils in the corners of his mind are too busy upending the archives of Memory. Short moving scenes and stacks of images are flung about mercilessly, all depicting the same inevitable event set to different settings. The Denial. 

_“I’m not his friend” “I don’t know him.” “We’re not.” “He is not my—”_

Because always, without fail, Aziraphale clears the air of any uncouth assumptions that humans invariably make about them. 

Crowley never felt the urge to do the same. He would claim that it was professional curiosity— it can be quite useful to know the levels of intimacy different cultures and times reserve for different bonds, impertinent information for temptation all across the board. Secondly, he might claim that the implication of such intimacy is amusing, and therefore he’d wanted to maintain the illusion for entertainment purposes. Thirdly, if desperately, he could argue that this could up his devilish reputation; the idea that he’d tempted an angel of heaven to his wedding bed should be an accomplishment of his own, however unrealistic it might be. 

But this would not be the truth of it, and Crowley had lost the ability to effectively lie to himself somewhere in the last few weeks. Facing an apocalypse does wonders to one’s self-reflection. So he’s now very acutely aware of the real reason why he likes hearing those false impressions. 

It is proof. Though humanity’s perception is often faulty, they’d been able, over the generations, to recognize something that Crowley has always felt, but Aziraphale could not see. It had given him a little speck of hope, that if strangers could feel the tension between them then it wasn’t all projection and that maybe someday—

Yeah. Right. 

The point is, Aziraphale had broken the pattern, which is why Crowley has lost all ability to function.

“Come,” Aziraphale says, looking completely chuffed as he spreads out their dinner on the table. “I’m starving.” 

Crowley sits. Food is about the last thing on his mind right now. 

_My husband. My husband. My husband._

It grates on him, but sweetly— an ache that makes him understand why some people seek out pain for pleasure. He repeats the sequence of events again and again, trying to make it feel less like a dream. Even merely minutes removed, the complete surprise of it has given it an almost fantastical reality. It shimmers in his mind’s eye. A magic trick. It must be. 

Aziraphale, his bastard worth knowing, had not plucked the assumption from the mouth of a stranger and crushed it mercilessly underfoot. He hadn’t even ignored it. 

He’d confirmed it. 

Realising that for the second time doesn’t help matters. On the contrary, it results in Crowley completely losing his mind. 

“Angel, have I missed my own wedding?” Crowley asks idly. Like the idea amuses him. As if a wrong word on this will not break him— at least for half an eternity, give or take. 

When Aziraphale doesn’t immediately respond, Crowley continues, his voice climbing higher and higher as he goes. “Please tell me it was in a church. I’ve always planned to tapdance my way into your hand.” 

He tries to grin at the joke, but it fits like an earthworm on his face. It isn’t even a joke. It is revealing in a way Aziraphale should be able to notice. Any moment now Aziraphale will look at him with that particular frown of confusion, or the soft-featured face of pity. Or even more nightmarish, the gentle smile of kindness, and then crush this shadow of an assumption as mercilessly he’d almost done— almost always done. 

Crowley braces himself and—

Aziraphale _chuckles._

“Oh dear,” he says, pausing to hide a giggle with his hand. “That would have been quite something.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed with delight, a mirth to his eyes that spells out the kind of admiration of shenanigans, which made him so frustratingly lovable— among other things. 

Crowley should be relieved— the regained security of his most tightly held secret is such a bout of luck that he should be on his knees to thank Her for it. 

But he isn’t. His fist clenches and his breath pushes and pulls with a sudden force. Every huff of laughter from Aziraphale shoots a hot bolt of something painful through his body. How dare he laugh like this? How dare he giggle like it’s nothing but a joke—like it doesn’t matter. As if none of it did. As if there is nothing instrumental and earth shattering about the fact that Aziraphale _confirmed it._ He _agreed_ with what the stupid kid saw, even if it was just the easiest way to diffuse the situation. He’d never cared about that before. The denial was always more important. So why—

“Why did you—” Crowley stops himself, and takes extra care to keep his voice from climbing. “You always. Always. Denied it. Why did you— Why _did_ you?” 

Aziraphale has stopped giggling and looks at him with wide eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry dear. I didn’t think you would mind.” 

“I—” Crowley sets his jaw and tells the truth. “I don’t.” 

He gets a sceptical eyebrow for his efforts. 

Crowley’s gaze flickers away, looking at nothing in particular. He feels too warm inside of his skin, like he’s stepped into a sauna without noticing. “I just want to understand, Angel.” 

There is a pause, but then Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, the child was scared, so arguing the point would only draw out the interaction more. I merely wished to end it as soon as I could, granting the both of you peace and quiet.” 

The pitch of Aziraphale’s voice fluctuates in almost a circular manner, reflecting the way he is clearly talking around something Crowley cannot see the shape of, only knowing its existence by the absence of the complete truth. What is he hiding?

“Angel,” Crowley says instead, but the question comes across nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry! I just—” Aziraphale sighs. “It is strange to put words to it so explicitly, but I suppose I agree with the child, in a sense. The English language— as all human languages — is so limited in its descriptions of the higher emotions, which is understandable as they do not experience many of them in their mortal lifetimes… But I have to admit that taking those faults in account, husband is a more accurate moniker than not, relatively speaking.” 

Crowley’s eyes snap to Aziraphale, who is— unperturbed. Not flushed at all. His expression is one of serene contemplation, and Crowley can only theorize that his dearest angel has absolutely no idea what the word “husband” means. 

“I mean, you have to give them kudos for their tireless attempts to craft the right phrases. Poets, if nothing else, are the most determined of all to give language to what they will never understand. But nothing would describe what we are to each other. They could never comprehend a bond stretching over six thousand years; a friendship bridging the greatest divide, that of Heaven and Hell.” 

At this, Aziraphale shakes his head, smiling absently for a moment, and then returns from the far away place his mind had been to meet Crowley’s gaze with sudden intensity. His smile grows larger, but subtly so, like he is trying to tame it unsuccessfully. His cheeks remain un-flushed, but his eyes— his eyes are red and filled with emotion too large to name. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, reaching over to take his hands. “We have saved the world together. We have been godparents, companions through the ages, and no one knows us more than we do each other. What other word is there but husband?” 

Crowley has lost his grasp on words all together. There is nothing to say— nothing to argue, because how can he respond to something so unbearably true and so torturously wrong at the same time? 

If he’d had the capacity to, Crowley would have said— yelled maybe: _Yes. We are. We always have been. But no, you blasted angel. No we are not because I love you like human husbands do. And you do not allow me to._

But he can’t, so instead he nods, very slowly, in a rare moment that is neither the truth nor a lie. 

He’s rewarded with a squeeze of his hands. 

“Oh, I am glad we agree,” Aziraphale says, joyful, and then releases him to gather their plates. “We’ve forgotten all about the food in our excitement. I’m going to heat it up for a mo. Do you want tea in the meantime?” 

The pure casualness of it all is giving Crowley an acute headache. He nods again. 

“Alright, don’t go anywhere dear, I’ll be right back.” 

——

The subject does not come up again. Crowley doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. 

Aziraphale continues like nothing ever happened. But maybe nothing did. A word was said. A conversation was had. A definition had been put forward and Crowley had agreed to it. It’s not like he can take it back. Aziraphale had been right, after all. Crowley just wishes he had made an addendum because the problem is:

The subject doesn’t come up again and Crowley can’t fucking stop thinking about it. 

_Husband husband husband._

This leaves Crowley here, suspended on the ceiling of his Mayfair flat, pushing away the false square of concrete to reveal a small antique safe— the contractor guys had been fairly confused at these specifications but Crowley paid them enough not to ask too many questions. It is just that he needed a place to hide something and Angels have the tendency to only look up for a fleeting moment: They never dare to _stare_ into the big Above in case something blinks back at them disapprovingly. 

The lock gives a satisfying click and the door falls open by way of gravity. Crowley, as always unburdened by such powers, floats to the side and catches the treasure that falls out. 

He drifts down and opens the tiny box. The familiar glint of gold takes his breath away like it always does, but this time leaves something more bitter. It is unfair. He’d bought this with the fullest belief he would never be lucky enough to use it. It had been an indulgence of sentiment, not a marker of ambition. But now, faced with the scaled surface of a gold ring, he has to admit to himself that a part of him had dared to hope to see it, one day, around Aziraphale’s finger. 

Crowley takes it out of the straw that formed the bedding. Most of it breaks into dust at this minor movement, the centuries of time making it too fragile to persist. More than three thousand years it had been, since that burning hot summer on the coast of Greece. The ring had not existed, then, but what Crowley had found was its most important ingredient. As he turns it into the light, the wonder of the precious metal is forgotten, as the inside of the ring shimmers in blue. The sea shell of a long extinct creature had tricked Crowley that day— from the distance, Crowley had believed that he’d spied Aziraphale in the market. But what he thought to be familiar eyes, had been the headpiece of a stranger, two shells flared open into the sun. 

Underneath the scattering straw, the second shell reveals itself. It's a little rougher, not yet hewn into shape. Crowley had bought them both off the woman, for much more than they were truly worth, because maybe he wouldn’t be the only one who wished to make something immeasurably more precious out of it. 

Now, he supposes, the shell is doomed to remain a shell. 

A sigh escapes him, and then another, but the third is interrupted when Crowley snarls at himself. What purpose has this moping? Can he be any more pathetic? Before a fly can blink he shakes off his insanity and stomps to grab his shovel for some well earned plant-based therapy. 

It is late by the time his throat is raw from shouting, and the floor is miracled clean from its previous bloody — or dirt-y — crime scene. But somehow, without Crowley himself having noticed, both the ring and the shell had managed to sneak into his pocket, and are carried with him when Aziraphale calls him home for dinner. 

———

“Done some gardening?” Aziraphale says distractedly, as Crowley pushes his way into the shop. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Crowley saunters up to him, reading over his shoulder— something something, the snails have been ungodly enemies today, something— “What are you reading a bored monk’s diary for? Found any dirty secrets of your brothers of the brown cloth?” 

“None of such kind, this fellow kept to the rules quite perfectly,” Aziraphale says primly. 

“That means he’s the most boring man who has ever been given the luxury of living and what a waste it would be, or he is lying.” Crowley turns on his heel, distracted by a sudden waft of scent— bread, maybe?

“You would be surprised. Those who think to write the most tedious details of their daily life in their journals are considered heroes like no others by historians. Boring people do not omit the obvious, which is invaluable when the obvious is no longer, well, obvious.” 

Crowley follows his nose into the back of the shop, speaking a little louder to remain audible. “Have you become a historian when I was away? Wouldn’t it be cheating, to write history you yourself experienced?” 

Aziraphale’s chuckle is like a radiant chime, illuminating the shop. “I’ve seen rather too much history for me to keep it all straight. I’m afraid a true historian will fare much better recounting events I might have witnessed than I do, which is why I am reading this journal. It jogs the memory, you see.” 

As Aziraphale spoke, his voice came closer and closer, and yet Crowley’s heart does a slight flip of shock when a hand touches his shoulder, and the book is pressed in his hands. 

“Our monk was indeed tedious with his notation,” Aziraphale says. “Now shoo, I’ll get the herb bread out of the oven, get yourself seated.” 

Crowley walks to the table distractedly, scanning the pages for whatever Aziraphale is talking about. He spies the recipe for herb bread first, presumably their dinner inspiration, but it is only a scrawl into the margins. The rest of the paper is covered in detailed accounts on how to plant and care for the herbs that grow in the monestary’s gardens. 

Herbs, and advice, Crowley recognizes with intensity. 

Because it was not the Gardens Of Paradise, in which Crowley learned that what grew in the earth could be planted, and cared for, by a creature such as himself. It was an ailing monk who had taught him the ways of dirt. He’d been under care of the court healer, a luxury earned through his close bond with the local leadership. It had been an opportunity Crowley had not been able to resist: a monk away from hallowed ground, weakened by illness. It was back when he had thought that maybe the demons were right to scorn him, that he was not doing enough. This was supposed to be one for the record books. This was what they would know him for. A soul snatched from the most boringly good man in the whole of the western world. 

It had failed, of course. Johan did so like his rules. 

“Where did you find this?” 

Aziraphale gives him the most radiant of smiles. “I’ve had it for a little while, but I was never sure whether you would—” He pauses for a bit, turning his attention to slicing the bread into thin slices. “No, I suppose I should not give myself the excuse. I was worried that you might not like me prodding in your past, I promise my discovery was an accidental one. You were under a different name of course, but the way he wrote of you. There was no doubt.” 

Aziraphale pushes a plate with three thin pieces to him, each covered in a bit of butter, and a pinch of rock salt. 

“But, as I found it, I had a whimsical idea— and I could not let it go. I couldn’t give it to you without the asking of it, but I could not let myself ask, it was too dangerous. Too— I was not ready, I suppose.” 

Aziraphale looks away with a sigh, hands wringing. 

Crowley barely breathes. His heart is pounding in his chest. 

“Oh do eat it, it will cool quickly!” 

He wants to protest. He needs to know. _What question, Aziraphale? What question is left, beside the one that cannot be asked anymore?_ But he also, really, truly, doesn’t. For it cannot be the question he wishes it to be, so he takes a bite in the hope it will stall the moment for forever. 

It doesn’t. It only makes it worse. 

The past comes over him in heavy waves. The feel of the sun on his skin and dirt crumbling in his fingers. His knees aching in a way that is and is not like prayer all at the same time. The quiet moments of attention to something that is alive, yet cannot judge him, and the loud bombastic shouting of Johan, the frustrations of a sickly man given to an apple tree, because “the tree will grow, regardless of my bitterness, but a human will not. Too much verbal venom will stunt the strongest of men, but if a plant has food, water, and sun, it could care less about your troubles.” 

“I—” Aziraphale says. “Is it good?”

“It's perfect, Angel.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad. Now. Well, so, I wanted to ask,” Aziraphale says, and then stops, licking his lips. “We have not talked about it since, but I have done some reflecting. I was perhaps, too quick to assume that you would accept the incompleteness of the English language, and the fact that you did agree with my unorthodox application of the word did give me some inkling that maybe I should no longer dread the day I could no longer force myself to be patient and—” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says quietly, reaching out to cover his trembling hands. “What is your question?” 

“Would you, maybe, teach me how to garden?” 

Crowley feels like he’s pushed sideways, his expectations playing with his sense of gravity as they are thrown by Aziraphale’s incomprehensibly trivial request. While half of his mind attempts to gather itself from yet another heartbreak over false hope, the rest tries to figure out why on earth Aziraphale worked himself up so much to just ask about fucking _plants._ Neither side has made any progress by the time Crowley realises Aziraphale is still talking and that maybe listening is a good idea to comprehend whatever the hell is going on in Aziraphale’s mind. 

“... I looked at good options already, but this is of course something we will decide together. There is this beautiful village in the country I found that is close to where the monastery of Brother Johan might have been at the time— though you would know better, I suppose. There is this one home I found utterly charming, and though the garden is very much overgrown I did so love the idea of making it into something beautiful with you and—” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley rasps out. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Well, not exactly _move in,_ because it wouldn’t be here. More, move in together, to some other place. Our place. Not my place-and-now-also-your-place, though if that is what you prefer then of course, anything I have would be yours too, I just thought—” 

Crowley takes his hands back reflexively. He’s overrun, but by what he doesn’t know. He’s unsure how he has ever been able to have a cohesive thought in his life, not when his mind feels so scrambled it would fare much better in a frying pan. 

“Crowley?” 

Crowley shudders and imagines: imagines a home, together; imagines dirt and earth and sun and no shouting but Aziraphale’s gentle voice; herb bread and old dusty books, Chinese take out and god-fearing delivery teens. The Saturday walks, quiet Sundays, miracle-only Mondays because ‘it seems to me that humans have a particular need of joy when returning to their jobs, so do be a dear and don’t bother them today, hmm?’. 

Each scene makes something burst in Crowley’s chest. He wants it. He wants it more than anything. But like a mean game of chance, the cruel coin of his future flips to the other side of each scene, and what he sees doesn’t allow for breath: 

The loving words Aziraphale whispers to the plants would be the closest he could get. It would be a life of eavesdropped affection. Of time together but always weary of the line that would make everything shatter. Walking side by side with fingers just brushing but never entwined, silence only broken by Crowley’s mind yearning for what he cannot have. And the Mondays, oh the Mondays, tiny blessings to old lovers, to a first date, or a family of three. To watch Aziraphale delight in what the humans can share between them, but what will never happen in their home. 

“Crowley?” 

The name is repeated once more, and then again, increasingly worried and then suddenly it stops and instead there is something much worse: 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale says, anguish spilling over the table like mist over land, making all else within it invisible. “I shouldn’t have—” 

“No, Angel,” Crowley forces out. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes are red now. His hands are half way across the table, hesitant and still reaching out. “Saying no to this will not change anything, if I ever gave you the impression that my love for you is with any expectations at all, I will never forgive myself. I love you as you are, as we both are now. Anything more is just an extra delight, but I do not demand it. I would never demand it. So please, do not look so afraid.” 

Crowley gasps and he feels his cheeks becoming wet, but he does not care. “You love me?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Of course I do. Did I not tell you? Did I not say that you mean more to me than the English language could describe?” 

“I— I thought, I mean,” Crowley shakes his head. “You love me— you love me like humans do. Not just out of ever knowing, because we are two ageless beings on a planet of mortals. You wish to live your life with me, because you want _me_ to be in it, however long we have?” 

“Yes, _yes_. Of course. I thought you knew. I thought— you are my _husband_ , Crowley. In every sense you wish to be.” 

“Oh.” 

Without conscious thought, his hand had found its way into his jacket pocket, and had pulled out a ring, and a shell. Crowley places them on the table, beside the tray of herb bread, still steaming of heat. 

“I’d wanted to propose one day, before,” Crowley says quietly, “but then I wasn’t sure if I could anymore.” 

“My dear, my sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and his hands cover his own. 

“But now, I think, even though we already are—” 

Aziraphale looks at him, tears of delight streaming down his face, and he is smiling. He’s smiling with so much love. “Please, please do.” 

Crowley clears his throat— tries to gather his words, his thoughts, the hundreds of dreams he had of this moment and cast away as an impossibility, or as the slightest, most hesitant ‘one day’. But none of his imaginations serve up a sentence, so in the end Crowley speaks without any thought at all, and hopes that his earnesty will shape his stumbling in something worthy of the ring he presses into Aziraphale’s hand. 

“What I’m asking is not a demand,” he says, shamelessly stealing what Aziraphale had promised. The words that gave him courage to ask. “I love you— I love us as we are, and anything more is just an extra delight.” 

Aziraphale squeezes his hand, the ring encased between their fingers, intertwined. Crowley stares at them, trying to focus, trying to breathe, and continues with all his might. 

“But for all that humans cannot ever love you the way I can— for all our centuries together are more than they will ever know— I cannot help but feel that in some ways there is merit in loving the human way. In loving like any day could be the last. Like every moment is precious, as they are in limited supply. Because we might not have forever, Angel. They might try to take you away from me, and I am grateful that age is no concern for us, but our moments together are a luxury still and I—” Crowley shudders. “I do not want either of us to have regretted anything, just because we believed that we would always have another day. So let me love you like a husband— a life partner, through sickness and in health. Let me kiss you— touch you, be with you, in any way you want. And if it’s not for you, then I will find peace in having tried and remain by your side in whatever way you wish me to. Because Angel, it might not be time that dwindles down our lives, but we are not immune to doubt and fear. I want to fear nothing with you.” 

There are no words in the English language to describe Aziraphale’s expression, when Crowley takes a breath and looks up for his final judgement. But the kiss that follows needs no words to express its truth. 

It takes them only a month to agree on the house, and after that it is quite a miracle they manage to move in scant but a week. 

Crowley smiles as his fingers dig into the dirt, a ring of his own swinging from a chain around his neck, and listens to Aziraphale whispering affections to the grass, the flowers, the bees and the seeds, knowing that each and every sweet word is meant for him, as much as the garden. They will grow it together, the two of them, until their very last breath. 

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said above, I'm trying to get back into this posting business. Uni during The Situation is not great with my adhd, but I've made it through my first year with surprisingly good grades. Now all that is done, I can finally write again, thank god. How are yall doing? Any cool projects planned this summer? Let me know! 
> 
> Thank you to my cheer reader Mertho and my betas 'Tarek_giverofcookies' and 'under_a_linden_tree' on ao3, who responded so promptly when I suddenly finished this fic in a feral creative moment tm. I'm so lucky for your help!


End file.
